


Studies in session

by Tyelperintal



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gratuitous expensive fabric references, Height Differences, M/M, Maedhros is whipped, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28424562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyelperintal/pseuds/Tyelperintal
Summary: Findekáno cannot reach a book on a high shelf. This necessitates Maitimo following him to an unused corner of the library.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	Studies in session

The ambush strikes during the waxing of Telperion, while silver light streams in through the lofty glass windows of the library.

Maitimo is absorbed in his studies; there are leather-bound volumes neatly stacked on the table next to him, alongside half a dozen shorter treatises. Ink, quill, and blotter have found their space safely away from the books, and a page of notes in small, precise letters dries just within reach of his hand.

One minute he is looking at a page of architectural diagrams. The next, with the only warning a quiet rustle of fabric from behind him, his vision is blocked by a pair of hands wrapping in front of his eyes.

His attacker holds in a laugh, save for a little extra breath on the exhale, but that’s enough to betray his identity. It’s enough, along with a bright and familiar scent like lemon and juniper that has Maitimo breathing deeply and leaning into the touch, despite himself—despite the public nature of their surroundings, where it’s otherwise not advisable to show undue affection to handsome cousins.

He wouldn’t indulge anything more than the subtlest gesture, of course. At this hour, the library is all but abandoned, but it is by no means empty; he does not want its officials to begin gossiping, even if Findekáno’s gestures are harmless enough.

“Guess who,” Findekáno whispers, close enough to Maitimo’s ear that he can feel the ghost of his breath along its curve.

“Tyelko?” Maitimo feigns ignorance, settling on the brother that is most likely to annoy Findekáno. Something about their proximity in age has the two of them constantly bristling at each other like cats on rival sides of a lane, though Maitimo finds it more amusing than concerning.

Findekáno tsks and drops his hands to Maitimo’s shoulders, where they alight on top of a velvet garment the shade of the deep cerulean sky near the horizon—dark colors lest an ink drop loses its way on the way to the page. “This is what happens when you stay in this dusty place for so long. Your jokes get dry.” He follows it up with an affectionate squeeze of his hand, never willing to let his comments cut too deep even if they are meant in jest.

“That certainly is a tragedy,” Maitimo deadpans. “Might there be a remedy?”

Findekáno hums, and taps his fingers up and down in a rhythm against Maitimo’s shoulder. “Yes. A bottle of strawberry wine that has recently come into my possession will cure it, but it must be administered with haste.”

Maitimo bites back a smile as he angles his head back just far enough to glance up at Findekáno. “I certainly hope we won’t be too late. Still; why are you here?”

Findekáno is clearly not dressed for a period of studying. His hair is elaborately pinned up and decorated with ribbon and comb as if for an appearance at court, and his wide silk sleeves, pearl white in color, are impractical. Granted, for all of Findekáno’s virtues—Maitimo will be the first to say that he has many—practicality perhaps does not rank so highly.

“I need your help with a book.” Findekáno pouts, which immediately raises Maitimo’s suspicions. “I need it to study.”

Maitimo raises one of his shapely eyebrows. “Since when have you cared about studying?”

There are things Findekáno likes: riding horses at a full gallop in wide fields, archery tournaments with ridiculous stipulations and challenges, pretty combs and ribbons for his long, wavy hair. And there are things he dislikes: tidying his bedchambers so the servants can clean, being unfavorably compared to his brothers and cousins, and studying with his tutors, generally without regard to the subject.

“Since my father reminded me there are examinations I must pass if I wish to serve in grandfather’s court,” Findekáno answers without hesitation. Briefly, he scowls. “I am aiming for competency, not distinction, if you want to know. But…”

Findekáno glances aside, color rising in his cheeks. “Don’t laugh—I cannot reach the highest shelf.”

Findekáno is tall and handsome, as Finwe’s line are, _nér_ and _nís_ alike; but he has two misfortunes. Maitimo is the first of them, the one who set the expectations high for the other princes. Turukano is the second; his height surpassed Findekáno’s years ago. Added to Findekáno’s competitive nature, it is one of a few weak points in the armor of his pride.

Were it not for the obvious holes in the fabric of his story, Maitimo might have laughed. “There are stepladders and footstools amidst the shelves. Could you not find one?”

“Do you think I am resourceless?” Findekáno protests. “I looked, and I even considered pulling some of the larger books off the shelves and standing on top of them when I could not find anything, but I imagined the Chief Librarian finding me and slapping me.”

“Mm.” Maitimo nods solemnly. “You should speak quietly. The fact that you even thought of it would be reason enough for punishment.”

Findekáno tightens his arms around Maitimo’s neck and leans in, the pearly fabric pooling around his shoulders, and his voice invitingly warm. “Come help me. It will only be a minute, and then you can come back to reading about…” He pauses, glancing at the open pages of the book on the mahogany desk, then gives another half giggle. “... ventilation shafts. Oh, Maitimo.”

Maitimo raises his hand, gently disentangling Findekáno’s grasp before he stands. Tempting as it is to let his fingers briefly interlace with his cousin’s, he resists, and also fixes him with a kind but serious look to remind him of their present surroundings, where anyone might overhear or oversee.

“What is the book you need?” he asks as they begin to walk.

“I have found the shelf.” Not quite an answer, is it? But Findekáno’s pace is determined, and Maitimo lets him lead the way, standing half a pace behind.

It allows him to admire the intricacy of Findekáno’s braids, of the blue and white gems set into the adroitly placed combs. Their shape suggests blossoms—with the twining gold ribbon, like climbing honeysuckle. Maitimo would be the bee drawn to it.

It is still too fair a look for the library.

“Have you been busy today?” Maitimo asks as they walk.

He’s rewarded with a falter in Findekáno’s pace. Subtle, but not unnoticeable. “Ammë invited me to an event. It was nothing important.”

A longer stride means that Maitimo can catch up enough to brush the back of his hand against Findekáno’s, feigning an accident. Findekáno glances up at him, sea blue eyes uncharacteristically guarded before he masks the look behind a bright smile.

The library boasts many levels and tiers, itself one of the many grand and beautiful constructions in the city of Tirion. Above, the tall windows welcome the light of the Trees and highlight the lazily drifting dust within their beams; but below, in the shadow of the palaces and crafting halls and artisans’ shops, the blue pulse and glow of lantern-light grows more common even as the books grow more uncommon. What is Findekáno seeking here? The examinations make use of common texts and commentaries, not obscure treatises, although the more dedicated students make use of strange old scrolls when they wish to raise their merits.

Findekáno finally pauses in what might be the deepest corner, and stretches up on the tips of his toes as he points. “There. The small book with the blue binding.”

In his defense, the shelf is rather tall, and even Maitimo has to stretch forward onto his toes to get a steady hold against the binding. He wiggles it from between the neighboring volumes, then lowers his arm and begins to turn so he can hand it to Findekáno. But in the midst of the movement, he finds himself the victim of yet another ambush.

This time it is Findekáno’s arm sliding around his waist and his hand against his neck to angle Maitimo’s head downwards, and then there’s soft but insistent lips pressing against his own. Maitimo gasps in surprise, if not out of displeasure, and that is evidently all the opportunity Findekáno needs to add tongue to the kiss.

Findekáno, Maitimo reflects as his hand scrambles to rid itself of the little blue book, is a liar after all. The book was not so far out of reach that he could not have grasped it himself if he really needed to; the fact that he can reach Maitimo for a kiss feels like the proof of it. But Maitimo doesn’t pull away, even as a voice in his head catches up to remind him of where they are and who might see, who might think it unseemly.

When Findekáno draws back—less for the need of breath, more for the sake of smirking in triumph—Maitimo considers challenging him on his subterfuge.

_There’s no one here,_ Findekáno’s voice enters his mind, answering the concern Maitimo is not stating out loud. _If you’re quiet, it can stay that way._

_You’re a little depraved._ Maitimo’s cheeks are flushed; he feels them burning. At least this corner of the library is away from the windows and Telperion’s waxing, meaning the betrayal from his pale complexion will be less obvious.

_And you’re an innocent if you think worse things have not taken place in this library._ Findekáno raises an eyebrow. _Not by me, mind you…_

_Not yet._

Findekáno’s eyes widen, but he leans in so his breath can once again tickle the shell of Maitimo’s ear. It’s indulgent. “I would change that, with a willing accomplice.” He polishes the statement with a touch of lips there, where Maitimo’s ear meets the curve of his cheek; tender, if not altogether chaste, especially with his fingers exploring the sashed waist of Maitimo’s robe.

Wouldn’t it be nice to throw caution to the wind just once? It might make Maitimo blush for the next few months whenever the library is mentioned, but they haven’t passed another soul here amidst the shelves. Findekáno is both beautiful and evidently in need of some distraction, if his previous faltering is the indication Maitimo thinks it is, and those are two good reasons to see how he looks shuddering and panting against the backdrop of ancient poetry.

But no matter what, Findekáno is his cousin, and Ñolofinwë’s son, and the gossip would light up Tirion like wildfire after a lightning strike if they were to be discovered. It would follow them in the flower-strewn streets of the marketplace, in the tea houses and elite restaurants, past the murmuring white fountains and all the way into the glittering halls of the palaces. Someone would probably end up banished after such a flagrant scandal, and Maitimo would not let it be Findekáno.

Findekáno knows those risks, too, although he feigns that it does not bother him.

Maitimo takes his hand, loosely circling his fingers around Findekáno’s wrist before sliding his thumb along the side of his hand reassuringly. His apology is poured into the gesture.

A trace of amusement still lingers in Findekáno’s face when he draws back, but for a second, Maitimo sees something else reflected there, something more pained than he is used to seeing. It doesn’t belong there; Findekáno is blue skies lined with stars, a stream of golden light, the summer breeze and major chords plucked on harp strings.

Something in Maitimo’s mind wonders why he thinks he has the right to be the cause of Findekáno’s disappointment, however fleeting and however necessary. Findekáno should be free to have trysts in the library if he wants to, to be able to laugh them off by virtue of his otherwise stainless reputation and with a wink and a promise that there will be wedding announcements in the near future. It’s more suitable for him than closely guarded secrets and unfulfilled wishes.

“This is the third woman she has introduced me to this week,” Findekáno says, pivoting so his back collides with the stacks of books. His voice is a murmur. “I have examinations to pass and I am not even a fully fledged member of grandfather’s court, and she already looks for suitable matches. I wonder how she cannot see it.”

Maitimo leans his shoulder against the shelf too, facing Findekáno; he is at least glad that their hands are still clasped together. Findekáno’s complaint is not unfounded, but he still has to raise an eyebrow at the reasoning—Findekáno is past his majority, past the age at which many less popular and less sought-after nobles have committed themselves to partners. _Careful,_ Maitimo warns. _You cannot be too young to marry and yet old enough to drag your cousin away from his studies to ravage him in secret._

“I love you,” Findekáno answers out loud, as if that is sufficient explanation.

It is not the first time Maitimo has heard it, but it is still kindling. Maitimo lets his fingers seek Findekáno’s so they can interlace, and although the moment is far from perfect, it’s not to say there isn’t a sprout of happiness growing in his chest. Findekáno is the light to which it orients. “I know it.”

“Will you keep studying?” Findekáno asks, with far less certainty than his affirmation.

“I’ve remembered a book at home,” Maitimo muses, his mind racing ahead to think of an excuse for them. “The same as this one you wanted, but I have notes in the margins—they may help you as you study. Why don’t you come home with me and retrieve it?”

**Author's Note:**

> Every part of this fic is shameless, from the fluff to the gratuitous Fingon hair to my Noldorin civil service examinations headcanoning. I might do an even more shameless sequel.


End file.
